The Right Call (18 page)

Chapter 21

On
Friday morning, Brill looked in the mirror and tugged at her uniform jacket until the epaulets were properly positioned on her shoulders. She felt a twinge of sadness, remembering Detective Sean O’Toole’s funeral last summer. Hadn’t most of the occasions that had required her to wear her dress uniform involved paying honor to the dead?

Kurt came and stood behind her. “Impressive. A pretty redhead in dress blues. Turns me
on.”

She laughed. “I hope you’re the only one who’ll see me that way. But I would like to be impressive. This is probably the biggest funeral this town has seen since Chief Hennessey died. I’m sure the mayor and city council will be watching my every move to be sure I don’t offend Win Davison.”

“I know he’s a powerful guy,” Kurt said, “but this isn’t about him, it’s about his son.”

“Yes, but it’s hard to separate the two, especially since Tal’s death was the end of the line for a male heir. And don’t forget we’re expecting the turnout to be high. We’ve got officers from Sevierville and Pigeon Forge helping with crowd control. Community Church holds about a thousand. And there’re almost that many employees at Davison Technologies who got the day off. Hard to say how many will show up.”

Kurt kissed her cheek. “Just don’t let Win Davison intimidate you. Everyone knows you were just doing your job when you questioned him. For heaven’s sake, you questioned all the parents in the same way.”

“Yes, we did.” Brill sighed. “And I feel so bad for them. I had hoped to make an arrest by now so they wouldn’t have to bury their kids with everything still up in the air.”

“Your department’s been working around the clock. What more can you do?”

“Nothing. But I needed a big break in the case by now, and we don’t have it.”

Kurt stroked her cheek. “Then be content to look impressive, Chief, and hold your head high. There’s no doubt in
my
mind that you’ll crack the case. You’ve certainly proven to the community that determination and hard work bring results.”

“Tell that to Davison. I’m sure he won’t miss this opportunity to tell the media about his disappointment with my department’s investigation.”

“Would anyone really expect anything else from him or the other parents of the victims? No one is going to be happy until the shooter is found—you, most of all.”

“True. It’s just that, as hard as my department has been working, I hate to see their efforts diminished.”

Kurt brushed the hair out of her eyes. “He might be too somber today to say anything. Even a big shot like him needs space to grieve.”

Ethan hosed off a driveway of newly poured concrete, his mind on tonight’s visitation at the funeral home. He knew it would be comforting to Uncle Richard and Aunt Becca, but all he wanted to do was hide until it was over.

“How’re you doing?” Uncle Ralph’s voice was uncharacteristically soft.

“I’m okay.”

“I wish you would’ve taken the day off.”

Ethan shook his head. “I’d rather be busy. I’ve got the long weekend off. That’ll be hard enough.”

“You’re welcome to join Gwen and me for our cookout on Monday. Tonya and her husband are coming. Also a few neighbors.”

“Thanks, but I made plans to spend Memorial Day with Vanessa, though I have a feeling we’re both going to crash for the rest of the weekend after Drew’s funeral tomorrow.”

“Maybe you should. But if you change your mind, bring her with you.”

Is he really going to talk about a cookout and ignore the obvious?
“The visitation tonight starts at seven.” Ethan didn’t try to hide his indignation. “Mom and Dad are taking Uncle Richard and Aunt Becca over there about six thirty, and—”

“Tom called and told me. He’s already raked me over the coals, so save your breath.”

“I guess none of this matters to you.”

“Hey”—Ralph took Ethan by the chin and turned his head—“it
does
matter to me—more than you know. I’m sorry for what Richard is going through, but it doesn’t change the unfinished business between us.”

“It could if you wanted it to.” Ethan pulled away. “The only thing standing in your way is your pride.”

“Maybe so, but it’s not that simple.”

“You’ve made it complicated. It doesn’t have to be.”

Ralph sighed. “Ethan, I know this frustrates you. But there’s so much more to it than you understand. Richard and I don’t even know each other anymore. I haven’t said a word to him in so long I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“I have a feeling just saying, ‘I’m really sorry about Drew,’ would cover most of it. Would that be so difficult?”

“No, but it would open a door I’m not prepared to walk through.”

“That is so lame.”

Ralph’s eyes glistened and he blinked a few times, then patted Ethan on the back. “It’s my fight, not yours. I’ve got to handle it my way and on my timetable.”

“Well, at the rate you’re going, that means never.”

Brill stood with Trent and Sheriff Parker at the Davison Family Cemetery, which was at the edge of a rolling meadow surrounded by hazy foothills. The afternoon sun was hot, but the shade of a big oak tree and a gentle breeze made standing outside bearable, even in uniform.

Mayor Lewis Roswell and several city council members stood across from her, the gorgeous mahogany casket between them, the family seated in folding chairs under the green canopy.

The officiant said a few words and prayed over Tal Davison’s body, after which each member of the family filed by and, with thoughts unspoken, laid a flower atop the casket. Cynthia Davison wept inconsolably and was helped along by a tall, handsome man, presumably her boyfriend. Win Davison, his arm linked with his pregnant wife’s, bowed his head, still as a stone, and finally added one last flower to the mix before escorting his wife to their seats.

Brill wondered how difficult it must be for a high-profile person like him to withhold his feelings at such an emotional moment.

Three of Tal’s sisters began singing “Amazing Grace,” and the sweet innocence of their angelic voices was soon joined by those gathered. Brill mouthed the words, but her eyes clouded over as she imagined how grieved she would be if she were standing at
her
son’s grave, laying his murdered body to rest.

She blinked to clear her eyes and looked out over hundreds of people gathered at the grave site, wondering if the killer was there—the same shooter who had killed Drew in cold blood and whose bullets had missed her daughter and grandson by inches.

Ethan walked out of Langley Concrete Company at ten after six and saw Stedman sitting in his truck, his head tilted back, his eyes closed. He walked over to take a closer look.

“Hey, you okay?”

Stedman jumped at the sound of his voice. “Uh, yeah. I’ve just got a banger of a headache. Guess I’m not used to the heat yet.”

“Sorry. You should probably go sit in air-conditioning and take some Excedrin or something.”

“I will. I didn’t want to leave without saying I’ll be thinking of you tonight and tomorrow. Hope it’s not too painful.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that.” Ethan glanced over at two young boys riding their bikes down the street and laughing together. “I wonder if the shooter has any idea the grief he’s brought on the families of the victims—or if he even cares.”

“It’s hard to say. Maybe he had his own agenda and never thought past himself.”

“Well, if he wanted to be famous, he got his wish. I pity him. I just hope I get the chance to see him held accountable. Drew was like the brother I never had, and putting him in the ground will be the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I want his killer to know that. I want him to know what he took from me—and my aunt and uncle.”

Stedman’s eyes teared up, and he looked away. “I have to work tomorrow or I’d come to the memorial service.”

“I know you would,” Ethan said. “That means a lot to me. Go home and take care of that headache. I’ve got to go shower and clean up.”

Stedman started the truck. “I know this sounds dumb, but if there’s anything I can do, I’m here for you.”

Ethan patted his arm. “Thanks.”

As Stedman pulled out of the parking lot, Ethan was struck by the fact that even a coworker seemed more affected by Drew’s death than Uncle Ralph did.

Stedman sat at the kitchen table, his hands wrapped around a can of Coke, his mind replaying the conversation he’d had the day before with Grant Wolski. If Grant wanted to hurt Win Davison, why didn’t he just kill the guy’s son without telling anyone? Why did he go to the trouble of involving Stedman and then interfering at the last minute to do the job himself? Someone occupied the driver’s seat that night. Were the two of them planning to frame Stedman? He remembered handling the gun and had no doubt his fingerprints would be on it.

Stedman stroked his beard. The man the cops brought in for meeting that young girl at the vacant house said the passenger in the red truck, who also fired the gun, was young and had a dark beard and mustache. That description didn’t fit Grant in the slightest. Had he disguised himself with the intention of framing Stedman?

But why? Why not do his dirty deed and be done with it? He didn’t have a criminal record, and the police would have no obvious reason to suspect him of anything. And if Stedman became a suspect, he wasn’t going to take the blame without telling his side of the story. Why would Grant risk his name being added to the mix? None of this made sense.

Stedman got up and paced at the kitchen window. And what did Grant mean when he said it was out of his hands? And that Stedman had no idea what he was sticking his nose into? Was it a conspiracy? Were there others who were disgruntled with the layoffs at Davison Technologies? Or who had a personal grudge against Win Davison? Did it even bother Grant that three other people had died?

Stedman felt a cramping in his gut. The only thing he was sure of at the moment was that he’d better not draw attention to himself by shaving his beard—and that he’d better keep his mouth shut.